


Above Scandal

by ck_suitcase



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: Drama, F/M, Family Secrets, Magic, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-03
Updated: 2020-06-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:00:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24525025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ck_suitcase/pseuds/ck_suitcase
Summary: A skeleton living in the Chagny basement. I've heard the music, screaming in the dead of night. I almost saw him once. They barred their doors to me forever, but you... You can get in. He'll tell you. They trust you, Christine.
Relationships: Christine Daaé & Madame Giry, Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera, Raoul de Chagny & Erik | Phantom of the Opera, Raoul de Chagny/Christine Daaé
Comments: 4
Kudos: 6





	Above Scandal

The old count was erratic in his final days. He gripped everything too tightly, seizing all in hands that shook. Harsh soap dried out his weathered skin as doctors came and doctors went, and he washed his hands of each of them in preparation for the next, his knuckles red and raw and bleeding.

“A horrible ordeal,” the voices of distant friends tittered into one another's ear, “just dreadful, what he has to go through. And to think the countess lost her life for the child...”

Yes, it was the child's life that was in danger. The count was old, but he had his health. He was a lively, robust sort, expected to sail through another ten years at least. Those final days were not meant to be his final days. They were meant for Raoul.

Raoul, who was so like the mother who had died bringing him into the world. He had her fair hair and light eyes, her adventurous spirit and oftentimes insatiable appetite. The count adored his other three children, all significantly older than the lad's twelve years, but none so much as Raoul. He lost the countess. He couldn't bear to lose him.

And so Raoul looked through glazed eyes as an endless parade of strangers marched to his bedside. They subjected him to an array of treatments and painful, foul-tasting cures that never worked. Their methods began with medicines that were tried and proven remedies, but, as time passed with no result, their regimens became more bizarre. The names his father introduced him to were less familiar, the syllables alien and sticky on his French tongue. Raoul forgot every name less than a day after he learned it, but, even through the haze of illness, he noticed when his father didn't address the strangers coming to help him as “doctor” anymore.

When Raoul took a turn for the worst, the sharpest in a long succession of turns, the count had at last exhausted every option. He had nowhere left to turn. The prognosis was unanimous: the boy would be dead in a fortnight.

Late in the evening, after the count had demanded all of the useless doctors out of the house, he downed a positively obscene amount of brandy and shut himself in Raoul's bedroom to be alone with his son. He cried, prayed in desperation, and, finally, as dawn lighted the black sky to bruised purple, he mourned for the boy, even while his shaky, wheezing breaths continued to sound through the room.

The count did not hear the front door graze the rug in the foyer, did not see the shadow slip through an impossibly small opening into the house. No one heard footsteps on the stairs. The count remained attuned to Raoul's shallow breathing, even as the dark presence crept past the sick boy's room. To his credit, the count had been drinking far too heavily to be alert. And perhaps... perhaps there were no footsteps at all.

In any case, the family rose the next morning to find their safes raided. Countless heirlooms, jewels, and other valuables were missing. Unwilling to leave Raoul for even an hour, the count sent his oldest son, the viscount, to report the burglary to the police.

Philippe, a young man in his twenties then, was perhaps the most responsible and devoted of all the count's children. He idolized his father and carried out all of his orders directly, viewing every matter his father addressed to him with grave seriousness.

It annoyed him greatly when the police sent him away, asking hardly any questions. They made a terrific show of being concerned about the missing riches, but the officer who took down Philippe's report did a poor job of disguising his true amusement. It seemed the wealthy were all losing their valuables to the same soundless, nameless circumstance.

Philippe left police headquarters discouraged, weighed down with their losses and the hopelessness of his young brother's condition. He did not want to bring his father this news, no news, with Raoul so near to dying. He feared it would break him.

His fears were soon forgotten, however, as a dark hand landed on his arm. There had been someone waiting for him outside of the police station. Someone with an answer.

“I know your thief, monsieur,” he said. His eyes were a startling shade of green, clashing with his browned skin. His accent matched his foreign appearance. “If you tell me what was taken from you, I may be able to scavenge a few of your items back. The police will never find them.”

“And how is it you can?” Philippe questioned, highly suspicious.

“If you'll allow me to accompany you back to your home so that I might see if I am right...”

Philippe did not want to lead this strange foreigner to his family and his home, but he spoke with such sincerity and wariness that he found he had no choice but to believe him. And so, with many reservations and a close eye, Philippe permitted the foreigner to accompany him.

When they arrived, the foreigner observed the missing valuables and miserable lack of evidence with a knowing sense of dread. He needed only to see the door, to hear that it had been locked when the family retired and it had still been locked when they woke to find their belongings missing, to declare with certainty and a curious air of resignation that the thief was exactly who he first supposed it had been.

Philippe began to excuse himself to report the news to his father. He explained briefly to the foreigner that his brother was terribly ill and the count's refusal to leave him, but, at his words, an odd gleam came into the foreigner's eye. “Let me speak to him,” he said, and invited himself into Raoul's bedroom.

The count caught sight of the foreigner and jumped to his feet. “Who are you?” When there was no immediate answer, he concluded that the thief had returned. “If you've come back for more of our belongings, I can assure you--”

“No, no, monsieur. I am not who you think. I have come to help.” His eyes left the count to rest on the unconscious child beneath the covers. “The viscount tells me your boy is very sick.”

“He is... dying.” The count finally said the word aloud. Almost immediately, he wished he hadn't. “Is that why you have come? Can you save him?”

“I am afraid not, but my son... he was very sick once too. There was a bleak time when I was certain he would die.”

The count gasped, holding the air deep in his lungs. “He did not die, then?”

The foreigner shook his head. “He is alive and well.” He paused, staring the count hard in the face. “You have seen doctors? They have tried everything?”

“Everything!” The count took his head between his hands. “And for nothing.”

The foreigner observed Raoul's sleeping form carefully. He came closer, leaning on the bedpost, his eyes shifting from son to father with a blankness that suggested he was seeing someone else entirely.

“I may know someone,” he said finally, his face grave. “The man who stole from you is the one who cured my son. Perhaps--”

The count did not even allow him to finish. “Send for him immediately! He can keep everything he took if he can save Raoul.” He motioned frantically for him to go, but the foreigner did not move.

“You should know...” he said with a slowness that made the count's blood boil.

“What? Know what?”

“When he saved my son, he killed my wife.”

The count's face contorted, puzzled. So the man was a healer and a thief and a murderer? But he could not dwell on the matter. Life was draining from Raoul by the minute. “My wife died giving me him." He motioned at Raoul. “I am sorry for your loss, but I cannot afford to care what crimes this man has committed now. I have let more unsavory characters into this house over the past month than I care to realize. Please, I am desperate. Go!”

“Of course.” The foreigner moved briskly to the doorway. There he paused, just long enough to throw one final glance at the count. For an instant, the old man could have sworn there were tombstones in those ghastly green eyes.

He did not return for many hours. They were long, miserable hours for the count. He glanced incessantly at the clock and then swiftly returned his attention to Raoul again, terrified he would take his last breath the very moment he looked away. He returned again to prayer, a desperate prayer that Raoul would hold on for just a few more minutes. And when those minutes passed and still no one came, he bowed his head to plead for more minutes.

It was an exhausting level of anxiety that even a man in his prime would only have been able to endure for so long before he collapsed. It was well after dark when the count at last lowered his forehead against the edge of the mattress and slept.

*

The count's first thought upon waking was that the lamp must have burned out. The room was incredibly dark, black with only the slightest hint of silvery moonlight filtering in through the window. He leaned back in his chair, his back aching from so many hours spent slumped forward. He rubbed at the deep indentation in his forehead where the mattress had been pressing while he was asleep.

Then the reality of the situation returned to him, and he leapt to his feet. “Raoul!”

His dry, cracked hands fumbled blindly for a light. He needed to see--

“He's still alive, monsieur,” came the accented voice of the foreigner. “I was not able to return sooner. I apologize.”

There was a strong note of aggravation in the last phrase, aggravation the count was slow to realize was not directed at him. He was not aware there was anyone else in the room until the additional party spoke.

“Allow me,” said a flat, unfamiliar voice. The stranger moved, bending to light the lamp the count had been unable to locate.

The count's gaze fled from the foreigner's promised healer as soon as it had settled on him. Once he realized this, he forced himself to look again, feeling horribly rude for his automatic response to such a bizarre sight.

Many strange men had come to treat Raoul, but never any like this. Occasionally, the count had had to stifle the urge to raise an eyebrow or turn his head politely, but never this guttural need to look elsewhere, anywhere else, as if seeing him were the equivalent of reaching unexpectedly into a nest of decaying rodents.

At second glance, he could not figure out why this man should repel him so intensely. He was dressed in solid black, but the clothes were fine and neat. He was obviously tall, but not so much that he could be exhibited at a circus. He wore a hat, black as well, and casting shadow onto his face in the lamplight... And then the count realized.

There was a white cloth draped over his face. It was very loose. The only thing visible was his eyes, and the rest was hidden. There was not even an outline to suggest where his nose and mouth might be. Squinting, the count could just make out the abnormal hue of one of his eyes. It didn't seem to possess any color at all, and the lack of pigment caused the count to wonder if the man might be partially blind. More bothersome than any abnormality, however, was the hate that seemed to emanate from his unwavering focus.

“I heard you can help my son,” the count said, and in that moment, he was suddenly certain it was true. “If you can, please hurry.”

“Not just yet. I want to discuss the matter of payment first.”

“You may keep whatever you stole, all of it.”

“I would have kept it all anyway. That is the entire point of stealing, is it not? To take, and keep, without permission.”

The count watched the shallow rise and fall of Raoul's chest, seemingly more labored than before, and promised rashly, “I'll give you anything. Please. There isn't time for this. It can be discussed when my son's life is no longer hanging in the balance. Later! Just help him!”

“Sometimes,” the masked man said gravely, with a touch of grim foreboding the count was too distracted to notice, “there is no later. We must discuss it now.”

“I tell you, I will give you anything you ask!”

“You would be willing to provide me with a place to live?”

The surprise was enough to penetrate even the count's near-panic. “A house? You want me to purchase a house for you?” The shock wore off, and he dismissively waved his hand. “Of course, of course! You will have the best house my money can buy. Now, my son--”

“I want a _home_ ,” he corrected, his voice very clear in spite of the fabric covering his mouth. “Yours, to be exact.”

At this, the foreigner inserted himself into the space between the two of them, shaking his head emphatically. "Erik, what in the world are you--"

"I think it is time for you to leave now, my friend." The interruption, though, did not sound at all friendly. "As you so often forget, I am under no obligation to explain myself to you."

"No obligation? I--"

"In fact, I believe it would be quite cruel to attempt to explain my demands just now. The boy looks to be on death's doorstep, and surely you would agree it is inappropriate to embark on a lengthy discussion when every spoken word might cost the count the life of his child."

The foreigner shot the man a foul look, massaged his temple as though his head were aching, and promptly exited the room.

The count could only echo the nonsensical terms of the agreement, feeling all the more threatened now that they were alone. "You would take my house?" 

“Don't look so concerned. I don't want it all for myself. I merely wish to live with... well, in close proximity to, your family.”

“What do you know of my family?”

“I know enough to see the advantages of such an allegiance. They are heirs to a fortune, with a great many friends in very high places. They have access to a great many things that I, in my current capacity, would never be granted.”

The count's gaze followed every movement of the masked man's hand as he raised it to indicate his covered face. “Why do you wear--”

“Because the attention I attract with it is nothing compared to what I would have to endure without it. I cannot live normally, but at least, with this, I can live.”

The count stared at the mismatched eyes even more intently than before, cringing to imagine what must be under the cloth to make the strangeness of a mask preferable.

“I do not favor people, monsieur, and they do not favor me. I only want the same comfort and security as any normal man. I cannot stay any place too long on my own without arousing suspicion, and I have grown weary of the road." He paused, his head tilting upward, as though he was appraising the ceiling.

"Let me have a room in your attic... or your cellar, perhaps. Provide me with everything I ask for, and, in return, I will tend to your family. I know how to make a great many medicines, aside from this sort of healing, but I can see your boy is beyond that. No one outside your family will ever know I'm here. Your children can go on about their lives as normal. And it is not as though I have a desire to partake in any saccharine household rituals. They need not save a seat for me at the dinner table.”

“Fine, fine,” the count agreed agitatedly. His eyes were once again on Raoul.

“I have your word? I may stay here.”

“Save my son, and you will always have a place under my roof.”

It seemed he was satisfied at last, and he approached the bed without anything further. He lifted his bag, which the count now realized was not a medical bag at all, but appeared to be a violin case. He set it on the nightstand.

The count thought it an odd way to tote medicine, but made no comment, not wanting to delay Raoul's treatment a moment longer. When, however, the man opened the case to reveal nothing but the musical instrument it was intended for, he could not remain silent.

“What are you doing? Raoul needs treatment. I did not send for you so that you could serenade him to death!”

The man took the instrument from its case and lifted it to rest beneath his chin even while the count was speaking, entirely unfazed. “Your son will live,” he said, and in spite of every absurdity, the count believed him absolutely. There was no doubt this would be the man to heal his son.

“Why don't you go downstairs, monsieur?” he then asked. “I should like to have something of our agreement in writing.”

The count looked down at Raoul, his pale lips and the dark circles beneath his closed eyes. He recalled the look on the foreigner's face when he went to retrieve this shadowy maker of miracles. Yes, he was a healer, but he was also a thief... a murderer.

Suddenly, he was uncertain. “Perhaps I could do it after you've finished? I wish to stay with him.”

“I work alone or not at all.”

The count wondered if the foreigner's wife was asked to leave the room before her son was cured. With a heavy sense of foreboding, he rose and brushed a hand across Raoul's forehead, ruffling the matted, sweaty blond locks that had stuck to his fever-pink skin.

No sooner had he left the room and started down the stairs than the music began. It was the most wonderful, terrible sound. It permeated the walls and wrapped about the count's ears even as he sat in his study and transferred his promise onto paper.

That was the first night the Chagny's neighbors heard the music. By dawn, the boy was well, the count was dead, and the rumors had begun.


End file.
